The Journey Home
by IsaacTheKhajiit
Summary: Fate offers an escaped Khajiit slave the chance to make amends for his past mistakes.
1. Chapter 1

3E 426

Llothanis, Telvanni District, Morrowind

The yellow blister-windows of the Telvanni mushroom pods glistened almost wetly in the noon sun high overhead, the green walkways twisting around the pointed towers in an incomprehensible maze. Llothanis itself was a single organism housing thousands of others, the massive fungus spanning nearly the entirety of an inlet of the Padomaic Ocean. As such, the outdoor areas of Llothanis were hosted on gigantic, rounded platforms and fungal shelves rising over the bay. Balustrades were not popular in Telvanni design, meaning one wrong step could send a man plunging into the slaughterfish-infested waters below.

On one such platform kneeled a large Khajiit, his hands bound before him in iron shackles. Mojar had been handsome- once. He was still muscular, if less so than he had been before his enslavement. Black spots dotted gray-tan agouti fur, his eyes and mouth ringed in light gray. Black pencil stripes lead away from dingy yellow eyes. His mane was not nearly as impressive as some Khajiit may have sported, but thick fur spilled along the side of his face like long muttonchops. Three old scars marred the top of his broad head, distorting the pattern of his fur just enough to tell they were there, and his ears had been torn many times. His rough-textured fur had lost its youthful glossiness. At 6'1 the Cathay was a bit imposing for a Khajiit, taller even than the guards who shepherded him like an animal to and from the pit. Most Dunmer preferred his smaller cousins, the Suthay and Suthay-raht, as they were easier to cow into submission.

Trails of blood-crust originating from a shallow gash on Mojar's brow marked his face like stripes on either side of his black-nosed muzzle. He tilted his head up, blinking at the patches of bright sky visible beyond the mushroom jungle overhead. Pennants hanging from bridge or tendril snapped in the wind, flashing as the swatches of color caught what light they could. His nostrils flared and the Khajiit almost thought he could scent the fresh air beyond the city rather than the bloody stink of the pit and fish guts from the nearby market. A crowd of Dunmer ringed the large platform nearby, a cacophony of smell and noise that hid his view of the combat, although Mojar could hear the grunts of exertion and the impact of fist and foot even through the mindless jeering.

This place- the pit, as it was called- was the Llothanis slave arena. Mojar knew little of local laws, but had his suspicion that some aspects of the arena were illegal. Nevertheless, it had never been troubled by the guards in the two years Mojar had lived there. The lowest levels of the Telvanni cities were what Mojar would have called the slums- seedy, impoverished, and brimming with corruption. Anything could happen for a price here in the dark shadow of the upper echelon and the towering spires that housed them.

The arena itself was a small circle of ground enclosed by flimsy rope fence and clustered on all sides by standing mer, illuminated in shades of blood by lanterns hanging from the network of walkways that criss-crossed over their heads. There were a few booths set up at the outskirts, some for placing bets and others that sold food and drink, with only a handful of tables crammed beneath cloth awnings to accommodate the patrons. Space came at a premium here on the platforms and not a single inch of it had gone to waste. A few pods hanging just above the platform edge opened into various pubs, titty bars, skooma dens, and any other form of low-class entertainment one could hope to find. Walkway tendrils growing from the front stoop of the aforementioned pods touched down on the platform, their curling tips a beckoning finger inviting guests to their doors.

The shouts in the pit rose to a climax. Mojar heard a crack followed by a mix of excited whoops, groans, and obscenities. The fight was over.

"Right, you're up next," said one of the Dunmer beside him, fully clad in Bonemold armor. At first glance one would think he and his companion to be Telvanni guards, but both wore blue loincloths bearing a black muskfly. They were privately employed by Goldyn Bereloth, Mojar's master, and the master of half the slaves in the pit. Mojar had been kneeling in what they called "the pen" because it was enclosed by a tall fence made of the same fibrous mushroom stalk that everything else in the city was made of. They waited with hands in shackles until it was their turn to fight, and afterwards would be sent back to their individual cages in the subterranean level.

Apparently the Khajiit didn't move fast enough; one of the guards grabbed his arm with a snake hook and yanked him up. Mojar growled as he stumbled to his feet. The guards chuckled and ignored the empty threat, but both of them had a hand on their sheathed swords. The same guard hooked Mojar by the neck and lead him out through the gate, his iron-shackled hands held in front of him. They walked single-file across a narrow tendril leading up to the arena platform, and then into the crowd which parted to allow them through. Many Dunmer cheered as he passed, while others cursed and spit. Mojar didn't flinch as their spit struck his already filthy fur. This was his third fight of the day and he had not been washed of the blood of that last Argonian.

Mojar looked up at a balcony extending from a stalk several yards over his head, commanding an excellent view of the arena. A Dunmer in a high-collared robe of red satin stood with one hand braced against the rail, the other holding a glass. His white hair was slicked black, plastered to his skull. The Dunmer looked down, meeting the Khajiit's gaze for a brief moment- the corner of his lip tugged upward in an intimate smile, as if some private joke had passed unspoken between them. He nodded and raised his glass as if in a toast.

The guard yanked at his neck and Mojar stumbled forward into the arena proper, forced to break eye contact with Goldyn Bereloth. A guard unlocked his shackles before retreating back the way they had come- the bracers were still there, but he had gained the use of his hands. Mojar stood silently in his burlap rags, eyes downcast at the blood-stained ground and waiting with his fists clenched at his side for the guards to bring his opponent. His tail rested inches from the ground, unmoving, his ears trained forward.

"We have a rare treat for you tonight, friends!" began the officiate, who paced along the outskirts of the circle, trailing his hand along the rope barrier. "No slave against slave for this round- this mer has come here of his own free will hoping to best our champion! And we all know these beasts like to pull their punches against their own kind, but will he do the same against a Dunmer opponent? You all know our deadly Khajiit bruiser Mojar, but here we introduce a newcomer to the arena- Vedran Thirano!"

Mojar looked up to see a single guard escorting an unshackled Dunmer into the pit from the opposite end. Nothing on the Khajiit's face betrayed the revulsion he felt. The mer was sickly, paper-thin skin stretched tight over jutting bones, his eyes deeply sunken in his skull. His head had been recently shaved and he wore simple, clean linen clothing, both of which Mojar was sure had been provided by Bereloth- or whoever his benefactor might be. The mer did not stand tall; he slouched and shuffled along, his hands curled against his belly. His body spasmed intermittently, but Mojar knew he did not shake from fear. Despite the haggard appearance his skin was quite smooth, indicating he must have been young, although "young" for a Dunmer could have been 50. Mojar had a hard time estimating their ages.

The mer called Vedran Thirano raised his head to lock eyes with Mojar, in that instant communicating volumes without ever having to open his mouth. The Khajiit saw terror, self-loathing and desperation there in those glassy red eyes, yet all of it muted by thirst. This man before him did fear, yes, but it was not fear of Mojar.

Some of the crowd booed. Most of them wanted to bet on fights, not watch a betmer beat an elf to a bloody pulp. Some, however, laughed at the show they knew was about to begin. Now Mojar understood why Bereloth had come today. This was some sort of personal score being settled. Mojar would most likely never know how the mer before him came to be here, but it was most certainly not of his own free will.

"Begin!" the officiate called almost gleefully. Mojar did not hesitate. He could see the muted shock on the Dunmer's face as the Khajiit launched into action, throwing himself at the mer with both arms outstretched. Vedran tried to duck aside but Mojar caught his shoulder with his left hand and jerked him forward, simultaneously plowing his right fist into the Dunmer's face with a sharp _thwock_. His head snapped to the side and the Dunmer crumpled, but Mojar's fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt and hauled him up. The crowd roared at the impact, and again when Mojar lifted the Dunmer off the ground by the shirt in one hand and the neck in his other and tossed the elf like a broken doll across the arena. It felt like picking up a child.

Vedran slid across the ground, the rope barrier finally stopping him. He rolled onto his side quicker than Mojar would have expected and pushed himself up, blood streaming from a broken nose. He would have a massive bruise and a crooked nose later if not healed. The big Khajiit stalked forward, in no hurry, staring coldly at the smaller elf. Vedran found his feet while Mojar was still a few paces from him. The Dunmer ran at him, feinted a punch and instead kicked Mojar's knee in an attempt to knock him down. It was pathetic how insubstantial the blow was. Mojar stumbled back half a step, raised his arms to block the punch Vedran threw before clubbing both forearms down on the Dunmer's shoulders. Another snap; his collar bone was possibly broken.

Mojar dropped on top of the Dunmer, pinning him, raining blow after blow on his head while the Dunmer tried to shield his face with his fists. He was simply too weak to have any chance of throwing Mojar off. The fight was over, but Mojar knew they wouldn't be allowed to leave until one of them had stopped moving completely. To knock this man unconscious as quickly as possible was the only mercy he could provide.

"Please!" the Dunmer gasped. Mojar stopped mid swing, his fist inches from Vedran's face, which by now was a bloodied mess. His lip had split, blood oozed from nose and mouth, and the skin was already a discolored purple. He didn't even try to fight back, his weak fingers grasping Mojar's wrist.

"Please," he repeated weakly, then coughed once, bloody spittle flecking Mojar's nose. "My debts erased... If I win... Please.." Those desperate red eyes searched the Khajiit's face, beseeching mercy but finding no hint of mortal compassion in the slitted, beastly eyes. Mojar yanked his fist away from the Dunmer's weak grasp and slammed it back onto his face. His head rolled aside, his hands fell limp. Mojar stood and stepped back, his fist stinging and fur moistened by blood. A healer had already ducked between the ropes and was running for them as Mojar turned away, stepping toward the edge of the arena with his hands held in front of himself to receive his shackles. He could hear the quick whir of magicka.

"It's too late," said the healer. "He already died."

Mojar froze. It felt as though he'd been sucker punched in the gut, all air gone for a moment. He looked back over his shoulder. The crowd gasped. Some laughed. The healer didn't even try again, not caring to waste his magicka on a lost cause. Something within his belly twisted, but Mojar held his ears and tail very still. Not a muscle in his face twitched.

The Dunmer was dead. It was not the first person Mojar had accidentally killed. All of their faces were burned onto Mojar's mind like brands, but this was the first Dunmer. He always thought that if he could just kill one of those fucking dusk-skins, it would bring him peace for a night. It would avenge some small part of the suffering he had endured.

The Dunmer lay like a sack of spilled kindling on the ground, his clothing draped over a gaunt body like the sagging skin of a fresh bonewalker. The pool of blood leaking from his nose slowly spread outward. Mojar felt the shackles click over his wrists and he was yanked away, back through the crowd that spit and cursed. A rock hit the back of his head but Mojar merely dipped his muzzle down to protect his eyes as he walked, ears flat against his skull.

A single guard led him to a pod entrance to the subterranean level where the arena slaves were housed while other workers dragged the corpse away. A real death was not such a huge deal here, and in fact sometimes low value slaves were left unhealed on purpose. Mojar expected he would probably not be punished. After all, the fact that he didn't hold back was part of what made him valuable.

Mojar was allowed to bathe before being led back to his cell for the night. He rinsed the blood of the dead mer from his hand with little emotion, watching the red particles drift away and dilute in the bathwater until it was like it had never existed. Mojar could feel- something, very far away, buried beneath layer upon layer of apathy, like thick scar tissue over a nerve.

"Stone cold killer," the guard remarked as he was herded into his cell, sans shackles but still in bracers and his original clothes, which were still speckled with a bit of blood. "I bet killing him felt good, didn't it?" Mojar did not respond, but stood silently in front of the closed door. The guard jabbed him through the bars with his hook before walking away, muttering under his breath that Mojar ought to be put down. It wasn't until he was out of earshot that Mojar finally sat down on the thin mat that was his bed against the wall. Two buckets rested nearby- one for water, one for voiding.

Each wing of the slave quarters consisted of twenty cells, ten on either side of a narrow walkway. There was no privacy at all, as the walls they shared with their neighbors were bars of the surprisingly sturdy tendrils, which felt more like hardwood than any type of fungus Mojar had known in Elsweyr. The gates to the cells were not part of the living fungus, although they had been crafted of the same material and the tendrils of the structure wrapped around the gates in lieu of hinges in the proper places. The floor and the back wall was slightly spongy to the touch, but firm if pressed on. Given enough time a Khajiit _might_ have been able to dig in with his claws, but guards regularly patrolled the corridors. It would take hours, days even, to make any real progress. Chances were that he would strike water, in any case. They were below sea level here.

"'Ay, Mojar, what happened?" asked the vibrant orange-scaled Argonian in the cell kitty-corner from his own. He had given Mojar the cut on his brow, and Mojar in turn had broken a few of the Argonian's ribs. Dasab-We was healed now, and Mojar knew there were no grudges between them.

"This one killed a Dunmer. Bereloth promised to erase his debts if he would fight. Seemed like a sugar-head," Mojar grunted. He felt very tired and did not want to talk. Dasab-We seemed to understand.

"Ah. A hard day, my friend. No rest, never any rest." Dasab-We rolled over on his mat. Mojar could still hear soft voices as other slaves conversed with one another, but no more questions were directed at him. He shifted his weight to his knees and lifted a corner of the mat to reveal the faded, smudged charcoal drawing on the floor underneath. The drawing needed to be refreshed, but Mojar did not want to waste the last tiny nub of charcoal. He would probably not come across any sort of writing tool for a very long time.. the charcoal had been passed to him by another slave. Before that, he used stones.

He stared at the faded lines of Shahrazade's striped face for several long minutes, tracing them with his eyes, committing the image to memory again. Sometimes he thought the color of her eyes or the exact shade of orange that was her fur was fading from his mind, but he quickly assured himself, _no, no, she was the golden orange of a sunset, her eyes glittering jade. She often held one rounded ear to the side, lopsided, just like her grin._ He closed his eyes and the colors filled in his simple linework.

This ritual felt almost empty to him. Some days Mojar didn't even care. It was like that emotion he had felt earlier, in the bath- so muted, so faded. His love was drying up, crumbling like withered leaves to blow across arid soil. To acknowledge this cut him deeply. Mojar's eyelids tightened and he placed a palm over his heart.

" _Forever one heart is bound to another. Two walk together as one in this life, and so shall they walk again beyond the stars,_ " he whispered in Ta'agra, repeating a portion of their marriage vows. Mojar lowered the mat over the drawing and laid down upon it, resting his head next to that spot. He closed his eyes again and tried to imagine that he was beside her, but his thoughts continually returned to the corpse of the Dunmer as it lay in the ring, surrounded by a wall of uncaring gray faces. Mojar imagined that by now the elf was already awaiting cremation at the local temple, if he hadn't simply been dumped in the river to save time and trouble. A poor mer like that probably had no family shrine. His remains would end up as donations to the Ghost Fence or in a "communal sandbox," as another Khajiit had so aptly described to Mojar.

Fitfully, Mojar slept.


	2. Chapter 2

Mojar woke to the sound of wheels in the corridor and opened his eyes just as a leg of roast nix was flung through the bars of his cell. The Dunmer tossed meat to Mojar's neighbors before pushing the little serving cart down through the row of cells, escorted by a guard who went ahead and opened the circular door for the cart to pass. The door clicked shut and the prisoners were left alone again, until the next walk-through.

Mojar suddenly noticed that the previously vacant cell to his right had been filled while he was asleep. A rather svelte Khajiit in sleek black fur leaned against the bars that separated their cells, dressed in the same rough uniform worn by the others. He dropped down on his heels in a squat, his movements unusually graceful, and beckoned to Mojar with one finger.

Sitting up, Mojar scooted closer to the bars.

"Hello, brother," the black Khajiit spoke in Ta'agra, cocking his head to the side and smiling in a friendly way. "J'riska, and you must be Mojar. This one has been talking to the others while you slept."

Mojar nodded. The Suthay-raht before him did not seem particularly strong, but that wasn't so unusual. It was hard to find a slave in very good condition, but judging by the sheen of his fur, this J'riska must either be new to slavehood or he had been a house servant previously. Mojar pitied him... the poor fool had no idea what hardship he was in for.

"A man of few words, hm?" J'riska asked, and then his voice lowered to nearly a whisper. "But a strong man, J'riska is sure. Very strong." His eyes slid across Mojar appraisingly.

"Most here are strong," Mojar said, narrowing his eyes. He leaned forward and caught the nix meat with his claws, pulling it to himself to eat. He wasn't quite sure what J'riska's game was, but his hunger was greater than his curiosity. Holding the leg like a club he set to stripping the tender meat from the bone. It was very bland, as the cooks didn't bother seasoning the slaves' food, but at least they were given an ample amount. After all, the fighters had muscles to maintain.

"Mojar."

A bit irritated, he looked to his right. Mojar was ready to tell the black Khajiit to buzz off and let him eat in peace, but instead his jaw dropped. A thin piece of metal, pinched between J'riska's thumb and finger, glinted in the light of the hanging lanterns strung through the corridor.

"A lockpick?!" Mojar hissed, dropping his food, grabbing the bars between them. J'riska grinned and nodded. Murmuring voices from those closest to J'riska's cell described what was happening to those further away. Soon, all conversation had completely halted and every set of eyes silently stared in their direction.

"Your arm, please," J'riska said.

Mojar hesitated. Even without the bracers, he was still deep inside a Telvanni complex. Guards roamed the corridors and stood watch at every exit. Escape... it simply was not possible, and the punishment for an escape attempt would be severe.

"How many minutes before the next patrol?" J'riska asked smoothly, snapping Mojar from his thoughts. _Perhaps twenty or less. No time to weigh these choices.._ Mojar thrust his arm through the bars and J'riska immediately grasped him, turning his wrist to access to keyhole on the underside of the bracer. Mojar suddenly felt lightheaded; his heart drummed in his ears, drowning out the murmurs of his cell-neighbors.

"How did-?" Mojar tried to ask, but his tongue was too thick, his voice too raspy.

"Shh, let J'riska work." On second thought, Mojar wasn't sure he wanted to know _how_ the black Khajiit had smuggled the lockpick inside. J'riska leaned in close, eyes intense as he concentrated on his work. Mojar heard the click, and his bracer popped open for the first time in two years. He retracted his arm and stuck the other through the bar, and let the first bracer slide off into his lap. The fur from his wrist to mid-forearm was matted, moist, and a bit dirty. Mojar stared in wonder while J'riska worked on the other bracer. He heard another click, and suddenly, Mojar was free.

But not quite. While the black Khajiit fervently worked on his own bracers, and then the cell door, Mojar sat and stared stupidly at his bare arms. He smoothed out the fur with his palm and almost cringed at how sensitive he was there. It was almost painful to be without the light pressure of the bracers. He shook himself- this was real, this was actually happening. He couldn't sit and marvel at his matted fur. Mojar pulled himself to his feet by the bars, leaving his bracers on the floor of the cell.

J'riska had finally unlocked his own cell, swung open the door, and now was hunched by Mojar's gate. In a matter of seconds it clicked open as well. J'riska spun to work on the next cell as Mojar stepped out. Voices began to rise from the cells.

"Me next, please!"

"Hurry!"

"This one is good fighter!"

"Quiet!" Mojar hissed, slapping his palm against the bars for emphasis. "If the guards come to investigate the noise you will never be free!" The voices quieted but all were standing now, faces and hands pressed desperately against the bars as they watched J'riska move from cell to cell. Mojar moved to the door at the Eastern end of the corridor, standing by the hinges to conceal himself from whoever opened it next. Other slaves had been freed and were gathering in the narrow hall, although J'riska had not unlocked their bracers yet. Mojar pointed to a large Argonian called Dragon-Scales, and then at the opposite door on the South end, indicating he should guard it the same as Mojar. The Argonian nodded and moved into position.

Two cells had been empty, meaning there were 18 slaves in total. Five had yet to be released from their cells and the rest were clustered in the hall barely big enough to permit two people to walk side by side, when suddenly the round door Mojar stood behind began to open.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Two slaves by the door yanked the Bonemold-clad guard inside while Mojar slammed the door shut behind him and whirled to grab the Dunmer by the arms. He yanked the guard's hands up while another Khajiit pulled the sword from his sheath. The guard shouted and fire burst from his hands against the low ceiling, hitting a paper lantern and raining flakes of burning paper. Mojar felt a sudden jolt as the guard's own sword skewered him through the eye-slit of his helm, and then the body sagged. Mojar went down with it, lowering him gently to avoid a clang of armor. The familiar stink of blood filled the air.

Mojar yanked the key ring from the dead guard's belt and hurriedly helped J'riska to unlock the remaining cells, and then the remaining bracers. Time was counting down, now. When that guard did not check in after completing his circuit, others would come. They might have even less time if his voice had been heard.

"Listen up," hissed J'riska as Mojar worked at the last pair of bracers. "We run now. We do not stop. Move as one."

"What about the others?" asked one of the slaves, meaning the slaves in the other wing they would pass.

"No time," J'riska spat. No one argued. Mojar felt a knife twist in his gut. He knew the moral thing to do would be to fight off the guards while they painstakingly unlocked every cage and every bracer. But it was simply not possible. All it took was one mage with a wide-sweeping lightning spell to take all of them out in one go. In these narrow tunnels there was no place to hide, and their superior number meant little in a bottle neck.

"Go!" J'riska said. Mojar opened the door, revealing another corridor filled with slave cells on each side. He and the slave with the guard's sword, a big gray Khajiit named Dro'mazag, went through first. They ran, ignoring the pleading wails and the grabbing hands reaching out from the cells. He did not turn his head aside, did not look his fellow slaves in the eyes. He tried to hear only the thunderous slap of bare pads and claws against the floor. He yanked open the next door, this one leading to an access hall branching in multiple directions. To their left the path sloped up, leading to the small, round vestibule that was the exit, where two guards would be waiting. A guard standing in the crossroad immediately jerked his head in their direction, drawn by the cries of the still-locked slaves. He hesitated for a split second before turning and running down a hall that Mojar had never been in before. The crowd ignored him and streamed toward the exit, for the door they had all passed through thousands of times as they were led to and from the pit.

The freed slaves spilled past him as Mojar held the door. He was not being polite- no one made room for him. It was a mad dash now. He could smell fear and pure adrenaline. Everyone had gone crazy with the hope of freedom. He heard shouting in the distance and knew the guard had alerted others. The slaves at the front had already turned left and entered the vestibule, and now Mojar finally had space to follow them. Aside from the mages tube leading out of the ceiling there, the only other door was the one leading outside. Mojar heard yells as the guards were dispatched, but most of the action was blocked by people standing in front of him. Someone pulled the door open and the light of early evening spilled into the room, along with a gust of fresh air. The scent of freedom.

Fire exploded in the chamber from above, the blast of heat rolling across Mojar's face as he stood in the round doorway. His eyes screwed shut, his ears flattened against his skull and he fell back, grabbing the doorjamb to steady himself, his breath taken away as the incredible heat seared his lungs. Voices screamed. Mojar looked up to see bodies thrashing on the floor as they burned. There was a mage in the tunnel above them! Another fireball boomed against the floor. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh and fur choked the air. Mojar could see the silhouette of people running outside- a few slaves had reached the door before the rain of fire. He heard screams as the guards outside cut them down.

Mojar felt something press against his arm- it was J'riska.

 _He used us all to escape. He held back so that we would do the fighting,_ he realized numbly. Mojar's ear turned to the heavy thud of boots and knew that at least four armor-clad guards were coming up behind him. They had no choice.

"Go!" yelled J'riska. They both dashed through the doorway, through the fire, leaping over the bodies of fallen slaves who shrieked on the floor. Mojar felt his pads press down on the charred flesh of another. Fire lit the tunnel above them and exploded against the pile of slaves just as Mojar's foot hit the threshold, the heat enveloping his tail. He felt J'riska's hands on his back, pushing him out of the way as they cleared the exit. J'riska's back was aflame and he went screaming over the edge of the platform.

It was pandemonium outside. Guards ran to and fro, trying to catch up with the slaves who had cleared the door before the blasts of fire and escaped their blades. Mojar saw Dasab-We laying several feet from the door, blood oozing from his slit belly. He moaned weakly, dying. Mojar didn't stop for even a second.

He ran.

He raced across narrow, twisting walkways and crowded platforms he had never seen before, pushing over pedestrians and flinging aside vendor carts when they were in his way, panting so hard Mojar thought his lungs or his heart might burst. The entire city seemed to be screaming at him, grabbing for him. It was merely background noise to accompany the roar of blood in his own ears.

Every route he had mindlessly taken seemed to angle up, sending Mojar higher and higher through the maze-like network of tendrils and platforms. He stole a quick glance behind and saw three guards racing after him. Looking ahead, the path branched in two directions: one toward a pod entrance, and the other to some sort of terrace where a group of Dunmer were dining while enjoying a view of the sparkling bay. He had run out of choices.

Mojar sprinted for the terrace. The Dunmer looked up from their meals, aghast at the sight of a Cathay Khajiit in slave rags barreling toward them. Without hesitation Mojar vaulted over the short rail, plummeting 50-some feet to the sea below. Levels of walkway and fungal shelves raced past him, sometimes mere inches from his nose, close enough to hit his whiskers. It was all over before he could even comprehend his luck that he had not hit anything.

Water smacked against his feet. Cold and dark enveloped him. Mojar struggled to the surface and gasped when his head broke above the waterline. He could hear yelling. The balcony had been at the outskirts of the city, so now that Mojar faced Southeast he could see the Llothanis peninsula on his left and the mainland on his far right, while the sunset-orange bay stretched out toward the sea before him. He could see no mer-made structures aside from little shacks dotting the coastline, and plenty of hills and forests to hide within. But if he swam in that direction, anyone on the balcony might see him. It was also the most obvious choice.

Mojar turned back toward the city and dove deep, darkness enshrouding him once again. He could barely see more than a few feet in any direction, and the stalks and pods of Llothanis loomed at him from the black. He only surfaced to breath when he had something above him to conceal, and sometimes there were only inches of space between the water and a part of the tower. He clung to a platform, claws gouged into the side as he hung like a lamprey to catch his breath and listen to the marketplace bustle happening mere feet above. He tried to will his heart to slow but it would not. Any moment now he expected a guard to find him- or worse, a slaughterfish. Mojar pushed off from the platform and kept moving, closing his eyes as he passed through garbage and waste thrown into the water.

He felt and heard a disturbance in the water; Mojar opened his eyes again and could see a mass of dark objects violently churning to his right. He suddenly realized that he was looking at a swarm of slaughterfish feeding on _something_... Most likely one of the slaves who had fallen in before him. Perhaps even J'riska. Mojar turned and swam in the opposite direction. The shadows over his head grew further and further away. When Mojar came up to breath, the limbs of the city were far over his head. He had done it- he was leaving the city!

There were a few structures on the Western shore, but Mojar angled himself toward an empty section of beach. His muscles screamed at him for rest but the Khajiit never paused for even a moment now that he was out from beneath the shade of Llothanis. He did not risk looking back, but he couldn't hear anything to indicate he'd been followed.

Sharp fangs clamped down on Mojar's right ankle. Unthinkingly, he yowled, releasing a stream of bubbles into the water. He twisted and grabbed at his foot, found a slippery scaled body instead. Mojar's claws dug into its flesh as they sank together. He felt its jaw tighten, driving rows of needle-sharp teeth deeper into his flesh and scraping bone. Mojar grabbed its head, felt his fingers puncture eyes, and squeezed with all his might. The slaughterfish finally released him then, snapping blindly and catching his hand, but Mojar ripped at its soft flesh with his other. The water had clouded with dark blood. The creature went limp. Mojar twisted up, trying to find the surface again. He swam, lungs burning, hand and ankle throbbing.

He broke through after what seemed an eternity, gasped, and started to sink again. Mojar forced his muscles to comply, forced himself back to the surface. The beach was so close... he didn't have much time before the blood would attract other slaughterfish.

His toes barely scraped the ground. Mojar paddled harder until finally his foot touched down on rough gravel, almost falling when he tried to place his weight on the injured ankle. Mojar hop-limped to the shore and collapsed on a beach more gravel than sand, heaving hard, his eyes stinging from the salt. He wanted to do nothing but lay there sucking in air, but his foot was bleeding. Mojar struggled to sit up and peeled his wet shirt over his head, tying it tightly around the wounds to stop the bleeding. Waves of seawater lapped at his legs as he did so. His left hand had been punctured and was bleeding as well, but the bite had been shallow. Blood matted his fur, and it hurt, but infections aside it wasn't life threatening. He looked up and saw ripples in the water where other slaughterfish had come to feed on the one he had killed.

Mojar felt heavy and tired, his wet fur adding pounds of weight for his weakened muscles to bear. He rolled onto his knees and pushed himself up, wincing and grunting as he forced himself to bear weight on the injured ankle. He had no choice. Mojar limped up the slope toward a forest of gargantuan trees and smaller parasol mushrooms barely taller than himself. He knew nothing of Morrowind; knew nothing of what might be waiting below the next hill. He might be running straight toward a garrison.

The only thing Mojar knew for certain was that he was free. _Free, free, free_ repeated in his mind on an endless loop as he staggered along, pain and exhaustion clouding his senses. The world was growing dark, and for a moment Mojar thought he was passing out, but realized instead that the sun was setting behind him and the forest he entered had further darkened the sky.

He came to the peak of the slope and found not a garrison in the valley below, but instead a river winding along the base of a mountainous, rocky hill on the other side. His end of the beach sloped down more gently to the water's edge, but it would be very difficult to climb out at the other side. Mojar braced his weight against a tree trunk as he panted and looked at the landscape around himself, both alien and lovely. The trees here had to be at least five feet in diameter at the base, long trunks of smooth, twisted bark rising sixty-some feet before the limbs finally stretched out like arms to fan shaggy clusters of thin, needle-like leaves. The trees were widely spaced here on the ground, but the far reach of their limbs meant that the sky was almost completely obscured. Large roots snaked through the stunted grass like veins, partially peppered by dead leaves and other vegetable detritus. The roots made the terrain rough and uneven to walk upon.

In the shadow of the massive trees grew brown-stalked mushrooms with golden gills, usually three or four flat caps branching out from every main stalk. The steep hill on the opposite side of the river blocked Mojar's view of the West, and the thin strip of forest seemed to continue both North and South as far as he could see- which was not terribly far.

He could make out dark shapes flitting from limb to limb high above him and could hear the buzz of large insects. Beetle-like shapes clung to the trunks higher up and Mojar hoped they would not take notice of him... some were barely smaller than himself.

Mojar settled down with his back against the Eastern side of one trunk so that he could watch the bay he had come from. Now that he was away from Llothanis and had time to think more clearly, he untied the quick bandage he had made for his ankle and began tearing the shirt into strips. He rebandaged both his ankle and hand and stuffed the leftover strips into his waistband to use for later. Part of the rough fabric was already stained by his blood but he kept it anyway, rather than leave evidence of having been there.

His stomach ached with hunger and every other part of him ached from the long swim. He reeled, leaning back against the tree, for a moment feeling he would vomit. The nausea passed and Mojar looked about himself, suddenly terrified. He'd thought emotions of such intensity were beyond him.

He had no idea where he was. He had no idea where the closest city might be. He was unarmed, injured, without food, potable water, or the tools to acquire such. And he had no time to sit and think; guards could be on their way. In fact Mojar thought he saw a tiny shape moving out on the bay, possibly a boat. He looked up, wondering if he could scale the tree and hide in the high branches until the search party had gone away, but immediately discarded the idea. The trunks were too tall and Mojar didn't think he had the strength left to haul himself up with his claws alone.

He hauled himself up and limped down toward the river. After drinking his fill of the fresh water, he would follow it South. Black Marsh lay to the South- this was the only thing Mojar knew for certain.


	3. Chapter 3

The sky had grown dark around him and a narrow band of stars glittered over the river. The forest blocked his view of the sky on his left, and tall bluffs blocked part of his view on the right. Mojar knew that elves had terrible night vision, the only part of his current situation that was to his favor. But he could still hear insect wings and shuffling sounds and hoped that the beetles of Morrowind were not attracted to the scent of blood as slaughterfish were.

The ground he traveled was firm; there wasn't much in the way of a beach. The short grass and dirt patches stopped abruptly and the river began a few inches below the drop off. He was thankful for that as well. Limping through sand would have been slower.

Mojar had his eye on a dark shape further ahead, trying to decide if it was a natural formation or not. As he came closer Mojar realized it was a wooden, thatch-roofed shack on stilts a few feet back from the river. He dropped to his heels and crouched for a moment, thinking. The shack had no windows, but he could see a thin wisp of smoke rising from a pipe chimney. A small fishing boat had been turned upside down and lay on the land nearby.

The river flowed North. In a boat, Mojar would be going the opposite direction of where he wanted to be... But if that had truly been a search party he'd seen in the bay, it wouldn't be long before the guards arrived. Following the river South was the obvious decision for an escaped slave to make. Surely they would come upon him sooner or later if Mojar stayed this course.

Still crouching, Mojar began to move toward the shack. He relaxed and moved a bit faster when his straining ears heard no movement or voices from within. The boat was a shallow, flat-bottomed type and only large enough for two people, so Mojar didn't have any trouble flipping it over. Beneath it he found a long wooden pole for steering, a pile of rope, and a leather flask. He gingerly placed them all in the boat before sliding it down to the water's edge and climbing inside. He used the pole to push off from the shore, all the while keeping his ears trained and alert for any sign of movement in the shack. He heard a muted thump once which startled him, but other than that the occupants were silent.

The river moved briskly and Mojar barely had to use the pole. He kept an eye out for fallen limbs and sandbars, but it took very little energy to shift the boat away from any obstacles, and the natural flow of the river seemed to guide him best. He watched familiar scenery roll by, his gut sinking as he retraced his earlier steps and moved further North. He might be making things worse for himself in the long run...

Mojar saw a bright light on the shore. He ducked down, pressing himself flat on the belly of the craft, his body curled to fit in the tight space. He heard helm-muffled voices and chuffing nix hounds over the gentle _slsh_ of water as one Dunmer ordered the rest to fan out and advance toward the river. Mojar's hands tightened on the pole as he stared up at the sky, waiting for the moment when the elves would grab the boat and try to haul him out, but it never came. The sounds faded away until he could hear nothing but the wind and water. Mojar slowly raised himself up. He could see several tiny pinpricks of light through the trees.

Dunmer truly were blind at night. They hadn't seen the boat at all. Mojar grinned stupidly to himself and settled back down on the floor. He gazed at the stars above and almost cried- it was the first time in two years he had seen them. Canyon walls on either side of the river slowly rose around him, narrowing the channel of stars overhead. He pulled himself up just enough to look around on each side and realized he was not getting out of this boat for a while, so he settled back down to protect himself from the cool wind that ruffled the naked fur of his torso.

He knew that he should sleep now that he had the chance, but a corner of his mind would not quiet. He remembered the stench of charred flesh, the sensation of trodding across dying bodies as he ran from the final chamber. He could hear J'riska's screams as he tumbled aflame over the platform, imagined the agony he experienced as he was eaten alive by slaughterfish. He saw Dasab-We bleeding to death on the ground. Mojar wanted to open his eyes, as if the starlight could cleanse the ghastly images from his mind, but he found himself too tired to do even that.

Slowly it all faded away and Mojar slipped into a blissfully dreamless sleep.

* * *

Mojar jerked awake to a thump on the side of the boat and a voice.

"Muthsera! Muthsera, please, how much for a ride?"

A pale gray sky still weakly dappled with stars hung overhead, streaks of cloud lit from below by a pink-peach dawn. Mojar sat up abruptly and saw that the boat had come aground on a large sandbar that spanned half the river. The canyon walls were gone, and lush green hills rolled in all directions. A thick mist lay over the river, obscuring the view for very far, but he saw the faded shape of trees rising in the distance.

A Dunmer woman was crouched in the moist sand beside his boat, one bony and pale-knuckled hand gripping the rim, the other cradling a bundle of cloth in the crook of her arm. A hooded shawl clung to her body, nearly as long as her skirt, the ends of it wet and sandy from her kneeling. The hood had fallen back and her long red hair hung loose around her face, stringy and dark with filth. A thin face stared imploringly at Mojar, her skin sunken in the hollows below her high cheekbones. She stank... a horrible mixture of body odor and terror, along with the faint trace of skooma.

"Please," she repeated in a thin, wavering voice. She released the boat and began digging around beneath the folds of her shawl with one hand. "I have coin-"

"Where is he?" blurted Mojar, grabbing for the pole and holding it close to his chest defensively as he stood, his ears flat.

"Here!" the woman thrust out her hand, holding two golden coins.

"Lady, he is no gondolier! What is this place?" Mojar snapped. The woman's fingers closed around the coins and she withdrew, supporting the bundle in her arms with both hands.

"The Outhas River, some distance South of Ranyon-ruhn. Please, if you are going to that city..."

"No. Go away!" Mojar jabbed his pole into the sand and pushed, scooting himself back toward the water. The woman lurched to her feet, nearly falling again in the uneven sand, and staggered after the boat. Mojar saw now that another bundle had been laying at her feet, a blanket tied to a stick as a makeshift travel bag. She didn't pick it up, but grabbed the side of the boat again with one hand. Mojar knocked her hand away with the pole before pushing against the sand. The woman dropped to her knees.

"Please! I have to get away from here! You don't understand what they'll.. they'll!" she began to sob, pulling the bundle in her arms close to her face. Another shrieking voice joined her, and Mojar realized she was holding a baby in her arms. He had freed himself of the sandbar but the bottom of his boat still lightly scraped against the shallows. With one final push he would be free. He paused, digging his pole into the ground to anchor himself.

"What will they do?" Mojar asked, eyes narrowed and face hard like stone.

The Dunmer rocked her crying baby but she was still sobbing herself, drawing shuddering, broken breaths as she tried to gain her composure.

"Quiet, child, quiet," she choked. She glanced up at Mojar, her red eyes swollen from earlier crying. He normally found Dunmer eyes disgustingly insectoid. It was like looking at an animal incapable of anything other than base, selfish emotions... but now he saw fear for her child's life and Mojar found that he pitied her. "My husband, Vedran... the men he owes money to... He is dead and they will come for me next. You don't know what those men will do to me, Muthsera!" Her voice had risen to a keening pitch and she broke down in sobs again. Her baby wailed louder.

Mojar froze.

 _Vedran Thirano._

 _A weak hand grasped Mojar's wrist, red eyes in a gaunt face staring up at him, pleading for mercy. The crack of bone smashing beneath his fist. The scent of death._

"..Get in," Mojar said, quickly looking around as if someone might be watching them. "Hurry!" The woman twisted to grab her bundle from the ground and scrabbled up again. Mojar took it from her, threw it to the side of the boat while she clambered in and sat down on the narrow plank that made one of two seats. Mojar immediately pushed off when she was inside. The current caught the boat and tugged them along, spinning them slightly. They slowly picked up speed as they moved toward deeper waters. Mojar glared at the woman who sat with her head bowed, dirty hair hanging over her child like a veil as she cooed and rocked the infant.

"Thank you, Muthsera," the woman said. She sounded like she was ready to cry again, this time with gratitude.

"Stop calling him that," Mojar snapped. "Khajiit is not 'Muthsera.'"

"I- I'm sorry. I meant no disrespect. It only means-"

"He knows what the word means. He does not care for Dunmer honorifics. Save her words and tend to the little one."

She lowered her head again and began shifting her clothes around to feed the crying baby. Mojar turned his back to her to watch the river, poling along to hurry their pace. The sky was slowly brightening but a thick fog continued to hang in the air, softening and diffusing the peach light on the Western horizon. The cries stopped and Mojar could hear the little murmuring noises of a nursing baby. He remembered Scheherazade, her belly tight and swollen with kittens.

When the rustling of cloth told him that she was finished, Mojar said, "He does not know this land. Ranyon-ruhn, where is it? What kind of place is this?"

The Dunmer cleared her throat before speaking timidly. Her voice was weak and slightly spasmodic, making her unpleasant to listen to. "It's a Telvanni city... The nearest to Llothanis, where I came from. The Camonna Tong run the docks in Llothanis, but I might be able to escape by strider there..."

Mojar sighed, stifling a growl. He didn't need to hear her sob story. He just wanted to know the lay of the land. But his ear perked at mention of the Tong- he turned slightly, looking at the woman over his shoulder. He vaguely knew that the Camonna Tong were involved with the Llothanis arena and that Goldyn Bereloth had been a part of that organization, but he was otherwise ignorant of Morrowind politics.

"The Camonna Tong- tell him everything she knows."

"...There isn't much to say, Mu- Khajiit. They are criminals. They've infested all the Great Houses, but Hlaalu, Telvanni, and Dres the worst. They've got fingers in the slave trade, skooma trade, artifact and arms smuggling... Name it and they are probably involved. Anyone stupid enough to cross them may as well tie their own noose."

"And her husband was stupid enough?" Mojar asked, voice devoid of emotion or inflection.

"Yes," she answered softly, looking away.

"How far until Ranyon-ruhn, and what lies beyond?" Mojar asked, turning around and sitting across from the woman on the other narrow bench. Her eyes traveled across the bloodstained bandages on his ankle and hand. She shook her head.

"Two hours, perhaps. I'm not sure. Tel Ouada is the next city you'll come to if you stay on this river, a half-day's travel past Ranyon-ruhn. It's situated in the mouth of the bay that opens to the Sea of Ghosts. Bal Oyra is the last city you would come to, on the very tip of the mainland. That... would actually be a much better place for me to go, if you happen to be traveling that far..." She looked meekly up at him through the hair that fell across her face. Mojar crossed his arms over his chest, staring back at her impassively.

"Why is this the better place to be?"

"There's an Imperial Fort... They hate the Tong and aren't influenced by them as easily as the Houses are, and lots of ship traffic would make it hard for the Tong to find a single person."

Mojar nodded. It might be the best place for him as well, even if this path took him much further North than he liked. He sighed, already regretting the added burden he was about to take on.

"Khajiit will take her to Bal Oyra, then. What is her name? If we must travel together, it would be good to know."

"Madura Thirano... Thank you. And your name, Muthsera?" Madura winced after she said it, expecting him to growl at her again, but he didn't.

"Mojar," he said, searching her face for any hint of recognition. None appeared. Hearing her full name made him sick to his stomach. It was as he suspected... he had murdered this woman's husband and the father of this infant. He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes for a brief moment.

 _No, not murder. Vedran was no innocent elf. He was somehow involved with these bad people and likely met the end he deserved. Mojar was a tool in Bereloth's hand. Mojar was not free._

"Three blessings, Mojar. I can't tell you how much this... means.." Madura trailed off. The Khajiit had opened his eyes and was scowling out at the passing scenery, his tail twitching against the boat floor in obvious agitation. She knew that she had offended him, but didn't understand how. She lowered her face again and huddled inward toward the child in her arms.

Rage suddenly rose from Mojar's belly; he wanted to fling this stupid dusk-skin out of the boat and toss her demon spawn after her. Why had he helped her? Out of guilt? She was Dunmer; no better than a daedra, incapable of the compassion he had shown her. The baby began fussing again and Mojar's ear twitched forward. Madura bounced and shushed the child but the cries only grew. The mother's voice began to rise as she spoke to the child, almost desperately pleading for the baby to quiet. She seemed close to sobbing in frustration again, running her hand through her disheveled hair and tugging on the strands. His rage evaporated as quickly as it had formed.

"What is your kitten's name?" Mojar asked. Madura jerked up to look at the Khajiit, surprised by his question. Her frown softened.

"Narisa."

"A girl? This is a pretty name," Mojar said, although he didn't particularly think so. Dunmer names were strange nonsense words to him. But he smiled slightly despite the cries- for some reason, knowing that it was a girl had humanized the baby in his mind. Madura tilted the bundle so that he could see her clearly for the first time, a pale little face encircled by cloth. She had been swaddled up tightly. Short strands of hair clung to a mostly bald scalp, glinting just enough in the light for Mojar to tell that she would be red-haired like her mother. He was surprised by the tone of her skin... it was such a light shade of gray, and was not at all blue-tinted. The large red eyes and little nub of a nose made her look bug-like. She was not cute, and with her face contorted as she wailed Narisa was downright ugly.

"Give her a finger to suckle," Mojar suggested. Madura did, and Narisa sobbed around her finger for a few moments, expelling drool in gobs, but eventually she seemed to notice that something was in her mouth and began to suck. Madura sighed in relief and looked up from her daughter's face to the Khajiit.

"You have children of your own, Mojar?"

He was staring at Narisa, once again with a cold expression.

"No." He stood, turned away from mother and child, and returned to poling through the nebulous mist that pressed against them from every side.


	4. Advertisement

I wanted to let my followers know the reason I haven't updated this story: I've been working on stories collaboratively with SickleYield and my solo stories have been put on indefinite hold. You can view our first story by searching for username: ManiacsOfTamriel

It is finished in its entirety, at nearly 160k words, and we will be posting chapters as they are edited.


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